


The Road That I Must Choose

by fredbassett



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 10:44:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2465387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Left for dead by unknown attackers and abandoned by a man he’d thought was his friend, Aramis has a choice to make: to live or to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road That I Must Choose

_But in the grey of the morning,_  
 _My mind becomes confused,  
_ _Between the dead and the sleeping,  
_ _And the road that I must choose._

Aramis came slowly back to consciousness in a world curiously devoid of either colour or pain.

The former was less of a surprise than the latter, as it had been snowing when they’d pitched their tents for the night cursing Treville for sending them on a training exercise during the coldest March in living memory.

As he stared blankly at the snow-laden trees, disjointed memories flitted across his mind like birds of ill-omen…

***

_Wrapping himself in a blanket, dressed in every scrap of clothing he’d brought and still feeling cold._

_***_

_The soft whinnying of the horses, their breath steaming in the cold air during the hour he’d stood watch, standing close to them for warmth, stamping his feet in what felt like a vain attempt to bring the feeling back into his toes._

_***_

_The red glow of the fire in the midst of the camp, a pile of dark wood on the ground beside it, ready to be fed to the flickering flames._

***

They hadn’t been expecting trouble. Relations with Savoy were uneasy, not outright hostile and they’d taken care to remain well on their own side of the border. But they’d still followed their training and set a guard, even though the night was cold enough to freeze hell. There was always the possibility that Treville might send another troop to test their mettle, and none of them had wanted to shame themselves in the eyes of their brusque captain, famed for his intolerance of sloppiness in any shape or form.

So they’d quickly organised a roster and after a hasty meal of hard cheese and even harder bread, all but the lone guard had been glad of the meagre shelter their tents had provided.

Keeping the fire alight had been the main job of the night watch. It wasn’t the most onerous of duties, but Aramis was still glad when he could relinquish his duties and wriggle into his tent.

***

_The dead._

_***_

_The dying._

_***_

_The exultant shouts of their attackers as yet another musketeer was struck down before even being able to land a blow in retaliation._

***

Most had died either in their tents or half out of them, the ripped material pooling around them like thick shrouds.

Aramis felt sickness rise in his throat and he leaned sideways to retch into once-pristine snow, already stained with blood and now vomit. He brushed a numb hand across equally cold-numbed lips, barely feeling the pressure of his own fingers.

He’d been woken by an abruptly-curtailed cry of alarm, and had acted purely on instinct, fighting his way out of the blanket cocoon, reaching for his sword and pistol, but a heavy blow had knocked him to the ground before he’d even made it to his feet. He’d rolled away from a bloodied sword, kicking out with his feet in an attempt to bring down the man looming over him, but a booted foot had taken him in the head…

***

_Hearing the last gasp of a dying man, and seeing red blood pooling in the snow as a man who had joined the Regiment with him stared down in disbelief at the spear embedded in his stomach._

_***_

_Waiting for a final blow to strike, but unable to move leaden limbs._

_***_

_Hands under his armpits, dragging him through bloodied snow, harsh breath in his ear._

***

A hand brushed snow off his face and Aramis blinked, seeing a friend’s face and not that of an anonymous enemy, half-covered by a scarf, as their attackers’ had been.

Marsac was wild-eyed, tears silvered by moonlight streaking his face. He stood in front of Aramis and stripped off his own cloak with trembling hands heavy with blood.

“They’re dead, Aramis,” Marsac whispered in a hoarse voice hardly louder than the wind in the trees. “They’re all dead. Every one of them.”

The cloak fell to the ground unheeded.

Without a backward glance, Marsac turned and walked away, feet dragging on the ground like a condemned man on his way to the gallows.

Aramis watched until the falling snow erased all trace of his friend’s presence, only the scrap of blue cloth left behind as mute testament to the fact that Marsac had ever been there at all.

Colour had returned to the world, bringing with it pain.

There was a throbbing in his head as if it was being struck over and over again by a blacksmith’s hammer. A sharp jolt of agony lanced into his chest with every in-drawn breath, coupled with a bone deep ache in one shoulder that spoke of a boot being ground down onto it. A line of fire ran across one thigh; a sword cut, but how deep it went he could not tell. The cold had inhibited the flow of blood, possibly saving his life.

The snow continued to fall and Aramis knew that all he had to do was close his eyes and allow the world of white to claim him. But flashes of blue and red kept intruding into the peace he was trying to claim for his own.

The blue of the cloaks his fellow musketeers had wrapped around them for protection from the cold.

The red of the blood that had been spilled onto the carpet of snow.

***

Their attackers had not returned, nor had Marsac, but the harsh cry of a raven told Aramis that he was no longer the only living thing in the forest clearing.

He had lost track of time, expecting any moment to fall into the final sleep, yet despite that, no prayers had come to his chilled lips. Was it because he was not yet ready to die or was it because his faith had deserted him? He didn’t know and wasn’t even sure that he cared any more.

The grey light of morning had started to displace the shadows of night and the snow had finally stopped falling. To his surprise, maybe even his disappointment, death seemed strangely un-eager to claim him.

A cough wracked his body, sending hot pain searing through him, along with the knowledge that if he didn’t move, he would certainly die. Aramis had no idea how much time had passed since the attack, but he guessed it had taken place in the hour just before dawn, when sentries were notoriously at their lowest ebb. How he had survived, he didn’t know. His memories were still patchy, threadbare in places like an old blanket.

All he knew for certain was that Marsac had dragged him to safety and then abandoned him, leaving 20 dead musketeers behind, strewn around the forest clearing like carrion. The ranks of the dead would soon be swelled by one more if Aramis didn’t at least do something to strengthen his tenuous hold on what life was left in his battered body.

Amidst sharp pain in some areas and numbness in others, he became aware of something else, an acute pressure on his bladder that had now built to such a pitch that it could no longer be ignored. He was almost ready to give in to the temptation of simply letting go and not fighting the urge any longer, but the thought of dying in a puddle of his own piss held little appeal.

He rolled to one side, burying his numbed hand deep in the snow as he gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain, bringing himself first to his knees and then eventually to his feet. He stood there, shaking with the exertion, taking his weight on what appeared to be his good leg, if good was an appropriate description for a limb that felt like it ought to belong to a new-born lamb rather than a King’s Musketeer.

With no feeling left in his fingers, unlacing his breeches became a task that needed all of his scattered wits to accomplish, for a blissful moment even driving thoughts of Marsac and his dead friends from his mind. Eventually, Aramis succeeded in bringing out his cock and letting loose a stream of steaming piss against the tree. Afterwards, he tucked himself away, but gave up the unequal struggle with the leather laces. Sartorial elegance was not exactly his most pressing concern.

He’d have to move now. Slumping down here would negate the effort he’d just gone through, although why that mattered, Aramis really didn’t know. He leant his pounding head against the rough tree trunk and stared down at the yellow snow in front of his boots, the acrid smell of piss warming his nostrils.

The whinny of a horse nearby made first hope then fear flare in his chest. Had Marsac thought better of his desertion and found a stray mount to carry him swiftly back to his fallen comrades? Or had their attackers returned to check their work was indeed done? If the latter, he was in no position to fight or to run, but despite that, he fumbled for the dagger at his belt, the only weapon he had not set aside when he’d crawled into the tent. There were some advantages to habitually sleeping on his side.

In the half-light he saw Jean-Jacques’ bay mare picking her way amongst the ruins of their camp, her breath ghosting in the air, no rider on her back. A raven flapped lazily out of the horse’s way, hopping from one blue-cloaked body to another to pick at a pile of yellow guts.

Sickness rose again in Aramis’ throat and he bent double despite the pain, but nothing more than froth flecked his lips. He’d already emptied his stomach of his last meal. He spat against the tree, fighting the blackness that threatened to engulf him, knowing that if he wanted to live he would have to re-kindle the fire and tend his wounds.

Noises around him told him the bay mare was not the only one returning to the ruin of the camp. Musketeers’ horses were trained not to stray far from their masters and maybe life was calling to life.

Aramis’ movements were sluggish, but he was able to feed some wood to the embers of the fire and coax a small flame into life. The feeling had started to return to his fingers and eventually he trusted himself to cut away the bloody leather of his breeches enough to expose the damage to his flesh.

A long, deep gash had scored his thigh, but the coverlet of snow had inhibited the blood loss. Holding a needle with hands that still shook was impossible, but he was able to press Marsac’s discarded cloak into honourable service, shredding it with his dagger and using the strips to bind around his leg.

He had a lump the size of a duck’s egg behind his left ear and blood had tricked down his neck, but there was nothing to be done about that. He was more alert now, although his memories of the attack were still little more than a dumb-show in his mind. If he lived long enough, they might return. Or they might not. It mattered little now, but he knew that the memory of the despair on Marsac’s face would go with him to his grave.

He set a pan of snow to melt on the fire and finally allowed his eyes to stray to the bodies of his dead comrades-in-arms. The falling snow had blurred the edges of the horror, but Aramis knew he could not leave them like this, prey to the birds and other forest creatures that would be attracted to the cloying scent of blood, shit and piss.

His friends had not died easily, despite the unexpected nature of the attack. Some still had weapons clutched in fingers frozen in death. Lips were drawn back from teeth, some in anger, some in pain. Some eyes were closed, others stared sightlessly at sky, snow and forest. There had been no attempt to strip the bodies of clothes or weapons, although purses had been taken.

Aramis threw balled-up snow at the birds, sending them flapping away into the trees, their voices harsh in a silence broken only by his own laboured breathing and the occasional sound from one of the horses. Of the 22 horses that had been picketed in the forest, he counted 12 that had returned, his own dark-coated gelding amongst them. More were probably close by and would no doubt be attracted by the company of their stable-mates.

What kind of raiding party left behind valuable weapons and even more valuable horses? Thoughts buzzed like angry bees in a head thick with pain, but there were no answers, only more questions clamouring for his attention, and eventually even they fell silent before the enormity of the task that awaited him.

One possibility was to ride to the nearest village to seek aid, but the thought of leaving his dead comrades behind to provide food for predators was one that he couldn’t countenance. Better to lie amongst them and surrender his own life to the snow. Just one more sacrifice at a time of the greatest sacrifice.

A shiver ran through Aramis and his hand sought out the cross that he always wore, finding the metal warm against his chest despite the chilled air.

Unlike Marsac he wasn’t ready to tear off his uniform cloak and abandon men he’d lived with, fought beside and loved as brothers. For whatever reason, his life had been spared when others had been taken, and to give in to despair now would be to throw the gift of life back in the face of his Maker.

And Aramis knew he wasn’t ready to do that.

***

The thick, waxed cloth of their tents made serviceable winding sheets. Moving slowly and painfully, Aramis did his best to wrap his dead comrades as decently as he could, reuniting severed limbs with rapidly stiffening bodies, stuffing guts back where needed and closing staring eyes.

He called each man by name, made the sign of the cross over them, and then belted the blue cloaks around their bodies and tied the tent cloth over that, using the thin ropes from the tents to bind the final bundle. It was exhausting work that left him gasping in pain from ribs that he knew were at best cracked and at worse, broken. He’d stopped to wind cut strips of cloth as tightly as he could around his own chest for support, simply thankful that no shards appeared to have punctured his lungs. There had been no tell-tale blood in his vomit.

His head still throbbed with every movement he made, while the pain from his injured shoulder had faded to a dull ache. Heat from the fire and the back-breaking, soul-destroying work had chased the last of the cold from his body but he was limping badly, finding it hard to place any weight on his injured leg, using a musket as a makeshift crutch.

By the time the sun had risen high in the sky, Aramis had long since given up expecting Marsac to return and the pain that knowledge brought soured his guts even more than the wine he’d mixed with snow and warmed over the fire. He forced thoughts of betrayal from his mind and made himself eat some of the bread, cheese and dried meat they’d brought with them. With rations from an entire troop at his disposal at least he had no prospect of starving to death.

Seven dead Musketeers now lay decently wrapped on one side of the clearing. As Aramis tried to regain what little strength he had left, he pressed snow into hard balls, ready to throw at the ever-present ravens and their friends the crows if they dared stray too close. He’d worked on the most damaged corpses first, seeing enough death at close quarters to last him a lifetime.

As the day drew on, each body took him longer to prepare, every one stiffer and less manoeuvrable than the one before but he knew he had to finish the work by nightfall. There were worse predators than birds in the forest, and he’d already heard the howl of a hunting wolf. The thought of spending a night in the open with unshrouded bodies for company was not one he wished to think on too closely and provided a spur for his flagging energy.

The fire was still burning. He’d been able to find enough wood to last through the night, or so he hoped. Beside it, he’d carefully placed a pile of loaded pistols on top of a blanket laid out on some saddlebags to keep the weapons away from the trampled mess of wet snow, blood and gobbets of torn flesh. The stench of death still hung heavily in the air and Aramis knew that soon he would have to defend the bodies from the wolves that were drawing ever closer.

Only three more of his friends now needed to be made decent.

Armand, the youngest of the men at only three months over 17, had been stabbed multiple times, once through the stomach and the rest through the back as he’d lain helpless before his attackers. His handsome young face had been split from hairline to jaw and his eyes had stubbornly refused to close.

Aramis folded Armand’s arms over his chest, pausing in his grim work to wipe the blood from the leather pauldron that the young man had worn so proudly. Armand had been the only child of doting parents, his father a former musketeer from the early days of the regiment. His mother regularly sent food and clothes, and messages from home. His horse, a grey mare that he’d brought with him from his parent’s stable, was tethered to a tree on the far side of the camp, watching Aramis from solemn dark eyes.

Fifteen of the horses had returned now, enough for Aramis’ needs, provided he survived the night to execute the remainder of his plan. He’d tied them loosely to trees, apologising for having no hay to fill their stomachs, his voice sounding weak and close to tears in the silence of the forest.

When he saw the first dark shape move closer through the trees, Aramis picked up one of the pistols and fired, closing his eyes against the sudden flare of light. When he looked again, the shape was gone. That set the pattern for the next few hours. He was not short of weapons and the wolves had little stomach for a fight. The snow had been sudden and had come at the end of a surprisingly mild winter, so prey had probably been plentiful up to the last few days. They might have proved more determined opponents if that had not been the case.

Eventually, the wolves moved off, giving him some respite from the need for constant vigilance. Relying on the horses to sound the alarm if the predators returned, Aramis slumped against the pile of saddle-bags and primed pistols, and finally allowed sleep to claim him.

***

Weak sunlight filtered through the canopy of stark branches, revealing a cornflower blue sky that seemed strangely at odds with the devastation left behind by the attack on the camp.

Aramis had left a pot of water warming by the fire. He dipped his old leather, pitch-lined mug unto the water, slopped a small amount of wine on top and slaked his thirst enough to enable him to chew and swallow some more bread and cheese. He would need strength for what he had planned.

It took some considerable time, but eventually he worked out a system for hoisting the bodies up and strapping them to the sides of the horses, one on either side, each providing a counterweight for the other. A musketeer’s mount was trained to carry injured men from the field of battle and to return the bodies of their masters home should the need arise, so the stoic animals simply stood unmoving in that place of death while he hauled on a rope strung over a thick branch, raising first the head and then the feet of each body, until all 20 men were trussed up like over-sized saddlebags.

The light was fading by the time his labour was finished. Aramis slumped in exhaustion against the bole of a tree, sweat running freely on his body despite the frigid air. His chest was aflame with pain but he knew he had to continue to breathe deeply lest congestion settle on his lungs. He still had to bundle up the dead musketeers’ weapons and other personal effects in spare blankets and sling them over the remaining horses, but that would take less energy and certainly less emotion.

The sky had remained clear throughout the day and moonlight would be enough to see them out of the forest. Aramis had been on enough of Treville’s famed night exercises to be untroubled by traversing the land under the cover of darkness and moving on would be better than waiting for the predators to return. A moving convoy would be less vulnerable.

They had stayed well clear of any habitation but he needed to bring the horses to a farm where they could eat and drink and be relieved for a while of the burdens they bore. When every preparation for their journey had been made, Aramis turned towards the still-smouldering fire and bent his head in silent prayer for the fallen, the words he spoke remaining forever between him and God.

Mounting his gelding brought more sweat out of his pores, but eventually Aramis sat slumped in the saddle.

He had chosen his road.

***

One day blurred into the next.

To Aramis’ surprise, his wounds did not fester and after a while, even the ever-present smell of putrefaction ceased to turn his stomach. Word of the convoy of death went ahead of him on the road. Villagers offered what help they could, but were clearly glad to see him on his way again. In other hamlets where he had no cause to stop, men, women and children would stand outside their houses and cross themselves as they passed through. The horses plodded on, as seemingly unmoved by the smell of death as he now was.

He considered bargaining for a cart, but he was loathe to leave any of the faithful horses behind, and would not use the weapons of his dead comrades for coin. Besides, the roads in the region were little more than rutted tracks and he did not want to be in the position of having to deal with a broken axle in the middle of nowhere.

Each day passed in a haze of pain until finally he passed beyond the point of even registering physical discomfort. He left the saddle to piss, shit and sleep, that was all. Through each day, and sometimes most of each night, the horses plodded on, as weary as he was, but their endurance was beyond measure.

By the time he reached the town of Montargis, Aramis knew that he was finally beyond the halfway point of the journey. And in a town that had been free of tax for more than a century and jealously guarded its privileges, a representative of the King was sure of a welcome that extended to more than just the use of a barn.

His soiled clothing was replaced, his blue cloak laundered and carefully dried, the horses were relieved of their burdens and three sturdy carts were procured, along with men to drive them. Messages were sent by swift courier to Paris and Aramis was entreated to sleep for one night at least in a clean bed. Nothing was too much trouble for the burghers of the town and Aramis wearily surrendered himself and his comrades to their care.

Aramis refused any attempts to persuade him to ride on one of the carts. He insisted on riding at the head of the sad possession as mile by mile, their journey’s end drew ever closer.

The King was not in residence at Fontainebleau, but his retainers clustered around the procession of carts and horses like curious cattle, eager to help but shying away from the dead stare and monosyllabic responses he directed at them. Aramis allowed them to tend him and the horses, surrendering care of his own injuries to the white-haired physician who remained in residence should the king ever have need of his services. Aramis’ bandages were changed, lotions were applied to the now yellowing bruises on his body and he was given strengthening hot broth to eat along with fresh bread.

The temptation to remain there until an escort of musketeers arrived from Paris to relieve him of his grim duty was almost overwhelming, but all Aramis now had left was pride and that he would not surrender to anyone. Death had steadfastly refused to claim him and he had chosen his road, long and hard though it had proved, yet not insurmountable.

The following morning, he took his place at the head of the cart train, tipped his hat to those who clustered by the gates of the estate, and set his mount on the final leg of their journey. He’d lost count of the number of days he’d been on the road, maybe eight, maybe ten. It mattered not. He’d chosen life over death in the midst of a snowy forest and would now have to live with that choice.

As Marsac would have to live with the choice he’d made.

***

Aramis heard the sound of horses’ hooves before he saw the mounts and their riders, thundering heavily on the hard ground. He held himself upright in the saddle despite knowing that he cut a sorry figure.

Treville rode at the head of a column of horsemen. The captain’s face was stark with pain, his mouth set in a grim line. The report Aramis had sent had been brief; he had made no mention of Marsac’s desertion, but it had been made plain that of the 22 musketeers who had ridden out of the garrison, only one was returning alive

The captain, a man of few words, simply wheeled his horse around and rode at his side while the remainder of the troop formed an honour guard for the fallen, each man’s face set in a mask of impassivity as they tried to avoid the ever-present smell of putrefaction by breathing through their mouths. The journey from there to the regimental burial ground would not be time enough to inure them to the miasma of death that hung in the air around them.

Identifying the bodies after this length of time would be a grim task, but Aramis could not lay down his own burdens until such time as he saw each of his brothers-in-arms decently laid to rest.

As nothing was to be gained by further delay, Aramis turned his horse’s head in the direction of the graveyard that had housed the dead of the King’s own regiment since its inception.

Twenty graves stood empty, awaiting their occupants.

Moving as stiffly as a man of many years, Aramis slipped from the saddle and steadied himself, resting his head against his horse’s neck from a moment, breathing in the warm scent of life rather than the cold stench of death. With Treville’s help, each body was identified and carefully laid to rest. As they worked, Aramis wondered if he would ever be free of the sights and smells of that day and all the days before it, stretching back to the cold, deadly forest when the last of his youth was stripped away and tempered in hot blood.

As the priest spoke the familiar words of the litany for the dead, Aramis stood beside Treville, head bowed, hands clasped together in front of him while tears tracked silently down his cheeks.

_Lord, have mercy,_  
 _From the gate of hell,  
_ _deliver their souls, O Lord._

Aramis remained in the burial ground until the last spadeful of earth had been thrown down. Then, with his captain at his side, he turned at last to face the road that lay before him.

He had fulfilled his duty to his comrades-in-arms. They were sleeping in the arms of the Lord. His journey from Savoy was over but the real journey still lay before him.

He’d chosen life over death, and he would now have to find a way to live with that choice.


End file.
